


Warrior

by CoaxionUnlimited



Category: Mass Effect
Genre: F/F, Mass Effect Big Bang, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-06
Updated: 2015-06-06
Packaged: 2018-04-03 04:21:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 14,563
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4086595
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CoaxionUnlimited/pseuds/CoaxionUnlimited
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the aftermath of the Reaper War, Samara decides to assemble a team to investigate the Alliance's inability to find Shepard's body. But as she delves deeper into the mystery of what exactly happened on the Citadel, she finds that there are secrets Shepard kept even from her, and that if she wants to bring Shepard back, she must both battle Shepard's past and confront her own future.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to IngloriousBoshtets, for the lovely art, and to VampireCheetah, for the beta work.

(Here’s something the Leviathan didn’t tell you, little girl: they had the technology to jump universes once, longer ago than you can possibly imagine.

One more thing lost to the Reapers, you might suppose, but you know what they say about assumptions, and this one is no different.

The truth is, the technology to jump universes was not lost but forbidden, for even the self-proclaimed masters of the galaxy realized that the ability to find a timeline where things had gone differently almost always did more harm than good.

They called it, well the word won’t translate, but a human might call it the Ether effect. All timelines close enough to jump to differ by very little, say by a factor of whether one little thrall lives or dies.

And in the long run, one life doesn’t make that much of a difference.)

Samara surveys the wreckage of the Presidium and tries not to despair.

There are entirely too many bodies, and none of them are the one that she is looking for.

“You are sure,” Samara says, for the third time this hour, “That she was here?”

“With all due respect Justicar,” the Admiral Hackett says, from a pace behind her, “I spoke to her. I was the last one to speak to her. And she was with Anderson.”

What the Admiral doesn’t say, what they all know, is that they found Anderson’s body. And that they have scoured the surrounding area down to the last stone.

“Believe it or not,” the man says, “I want Shepard found as much as you do.”

Samara can say nothing to that. What can she say? That she understands this, the need for a figurehead, the need for some hope in the midst of the grim business of recovery. That Shepard was the first friend she’d made since she’d taken her vows, and just because she was not the last does not mean that she was not the best. That she hopes, if nothing else, for closure. For an end to the false hope that Carolina might have walked away from here of her own will.

She is spared the necessity of finding words by a nervous cough from a third party, who flinches away from their combined attention. On any other day, she would make an effort to gentle her gaze. Today, she does not, and the human in front of them drops her eyes to the ground.

“Sorry for interrupting, Admiral,” she mumbles, “But they’ve found something that you might want to see.”

“What is it?” Hackett asks, firm and calm.

“They don’t know. But- Well, it’s weird. They want you to come over and look.”

“Lead the way, then,” Hackett says, with well-hidden impatience.

Samara falls into step a pace behind him, and glances over the people sorting through the collapsed Presidium. Almost all of them are human, and those that aren’t are turian or krogan. Asari have as much reason to be grateful to Shepard as any race in the galaxy, and yet, she is the only member of her species here.

The thought makes her want to frown.

She had wanted to believe better of her people.

Samara turns her attention back to the path they are walking, for such thoughts can bring nothing constructive, and is surprised to find it familiar.

“I was under the impression,” she comments, “that we had searched the Council Chambers already.”

“Uh, we did, ma’am,” the aide says, timidly, “But the thing isn’t, uh, technically inside them.”

“Where is it then?” Hackett asks, considerably gentler.

Instead of answering, the aide points. For a moment, Samara doesn’t see what she means. There is a small knot of people clustered in the middle of the council chambers, near the windows, near where they found- but that’s not what the aide is pointing at. Samara follows the finger, and finds herself looking above it. She thinks there is nothing there, until she begins to look away.

And then her gaze catches, on something that looks like an edge, but is not, because the sky is the sky, and it should be impossible for the stars to be treated like a piece of paper, cut out and inexpertly glued back so that the edges do not line up right. It looks wrong. It should disgust Samara, but instead, she finds herself feeling a surge of hope instead.

It looks, she thinks, like exactly the kind of oddity that might explain Shepard’s disappearance. She reaches out with her biotic sense, half-daring to hope.

“And what the hell is that?” Hackett says.

“We don’t know, sir.”

“It’s some kind of mass effect field,” Samara says absently.

“Can you be any more specific than that?”

“I . . . Perhaps. I cannot tell you what it might be used for. I can say that it feels very like the kinds of fields used in mass relays.”

“Mass relays,” Hackett looks speculative, “So this could be some kind of transport?”

Samara glances at him. He’s staring into the distortion, his mouth tight. She wishes that he had not said it, for now the hope that she has been trying to strangle is blooming bright in her chest, whispering.

Perhaps Shepard is not here not because she was vaporized, not because her body was lost to space, but because she was taken. Perhaps she is out there somewhere, alive, waiting-

“It could be some kind of transport,” Samara says, as much to her self as Hackett, “Or it might just be Reaper mass effect technology. I cannot tell you with any certainty.”

“It’s worth investigating then,” Hackett replies, with an air of reproof, and turns to the aide, “Cardinia, tell me you have some idea what this thing does.”

“I’m sorry, sir. They haven’t had any time to-”

Hackett bends down, grabs a chunk of warped metal, and chucks it at the distortion. The chattering knot of scientists (mostly human, but she can see at least one turian from here, and there’s a krogan in the back corner) quiet and stare as it arcs over their heads, and straight into-

Well, make that straight through.

The metal does not bounce off of the field, nor is its path warped, as a mass effect field might be expected to effect an object. Instead, it sails through the air, until it passes against the odd patch of sky, and then-

It is gone. Simply, suddenly, gone.

“Well,” Hackett says, obviously pleased, “That’s something.”

“Indeed,” Samara says, not entirely to him, and engages her biotics. Within moments, she has generated enough force to propel herself in a graceful arc towards the portal. She might have crossed through it, had Hackett not exclaimed,

“Justicar! What are you doing?”

“You established that the portal was worthy of investigation. I am investigating.”

“But- Look, Justicar Samara, we have to establish that the transit isn’t going to kill you first.”

“I am willing to bet that it will not.”

“I’m not willing to risk it.”

“With all due respect, Admiral, I don’t believe you can stop me.”

　

“With all due respect, Justicar, if I let you die over something as stupid as this, Shepard will kill me.”

　

“And if Shepard is dead?”

　

“Then Joker will kill me. Justicar, if you’re going in, I’m not sending you without back-up. Come back tomorrow, with a team, and we’ll send you through.”

　

—-

　

So it is that Samara finds herself stepping through the doorway of an establishment that, in her modest opinion, ought to have given up after the third hole the Reapers blew in its roof. One would think the ambiance rather spoiled by the chunks of rubble that the pulse of the bass shakes free from the ceiling every so often.

Or perhaps, Samara thinks wryly, watching a cluster of laughing patrons duck out of the way of one such bit of concrete, the danger is part of the appeal.

Whatever the reason, this bar is packed with people of every race and profession, clustered almost shoulder to shoulder between tables and on the improvised dancefloor. The noise of hundreds of celebratory voices is loud enough to drown out most of the music, loud enough that little but the bass penetrates the crowd and reaches Samara’s ears.

　

The life of a Justicar is lonely and stark, spent most often in silence and meditation. Samara has had little occasion, in these last centuries, to visit a place as noisy and lively and chaotic as this one.

　

She finds it refreshing.

　

So it is that when Jack emerges from the crowd a minute or two later, cursing quietly to herself, Samara is smiling.

　

Jack, like most who have seen the expression since she became a Justicar, looks a little unnerved. But, true to form, she recovers within seconds, and says, with her customary bravado,

　

“You called?”

　

“I made a post on the forums,” Samara replies, “Which you must have read, as you organized this meeting through them.”

　

“Whatever,” Jack mutters, “Come on, I have a table. No use dealing with this shit standing up.”

　

“Of course,” Samara says, as Jack makes an abrupt about face and starts shoving her way through the crowd.

　

Samara rather appreciates the space that Jack leaves in her wake, and to a lesser degree, the inventiveness of the cursing that she does to keep it that way. Perhaps this is Jack’s variety of courtesy, this clearing of space so that Samara might walk without the press of the crowd. It is hardly necessary, as the presence of a Justicar has a way of clearing any path, but Samara appreciates the effort. Or perhaps just appreciates the space, as Jack does seem to be enjoying herself.

The table is quiet and dim, as it is far from the dusty columns of sunlight that serve as this place’s primary illumination. The crowd is still present, but light enough here that Samara can draw out her chair without fear of hitting someone and that she can almost hear the music over the din.

　

It is also stacked with paperwork, dozens of datapads that reach nearly to Jack’s eyebrows when she settles herself across from Samara with a muffled curse.

Samara glances from the paperwork to Jack, and allows herself a small smile. She can guess what (or at least whom) these forms are for, if Jack’s little thread celebrating her students is any indicator.

　

“Shut up,” Jack snarls.

　

“I haven’t said anything,” Samara notes.

　

“Kahlee’s MIA, okay? Someone has to do this shit, and it’s not like anyone else was volunteering. I’m not _settling down_.”

　

“Of course,” Samara replies, perfectly blandly, and without a trace of sarcasm.

　

Jack eyes her.

　

“Let’s just get down to business, okay?” she says, breaking eye contact, “You’re here to make arrangements and shit.”

　

“Arrangements?” Samara says, genuinely puzzled.

　

“For Shepard,” Jack takes a deep, shaky breath, “You know. Because she’s dead, and she wouldn’t fucking want an Alliance funeral.”

　

“That was not what I said in the post.”

　

“You didn’t say fucking _anything_ in the post. You just did the cryptic Asari ‘Oh I need help and it’s about Shepard’ bullshit.”

　

“My apologies.”

　

“Yeah, right,” Jack mutters, looking at her a bit askance, “I mean it’s not like I don’t want to be there. Not like I can’t help. Shit, it might be even a bit of fun. Get together, hold a wake - celebrate Shepard as we knew her, not as some fucking Alliance saint. Watch Kasumi moan about how she’s never going to be able to get any more info out of her about what her husband looked like, see Garrus-”

　

“I hardly think that that is relevant.”

“Come on, it’s not like it’s not. And it makes Miranda twitch,” Jack smirks at the thought, “Dedicated two fucking years to researching Shepard and somehow missed that Shepard wasn’t her maiden name. It’s hilarious.”

“Jack,” Samara says, “I am not planning Shepard’s funeral.”

She does not let the cold lump that forms in the pit of her stomach at the thought show on her face.

“Then what the fuck are you here for?”

“I am trying to bring her back.”

Jack gives her a look that ought to be reserved for the insane.

“Her body was never recovered,” Samara clarifies, and watches Jack relax at the words, “She may yet be alive.”

“Yeah. Of course. She got lost on her way home from the Citadel and all we have to do is prance over there in our nice cute heels and pick her up and everything will be alright again. Is that it?”

“No,” Samara tells her, “There is a spatial anomaly near where they found the Admiral. I am going to investigate it. I would like you to come along.”

“I was being sarcastic,” Jack mutters, her arms folding across her chest, “And I-“

She stops. Glances at Samara. And then, as though compelled, her eyes go to the stacks of paperwork on the desk.

“Shit, Samara,” Jack says, her voice almost devoid of its customary roughness, “I’m sorry. I wish I could, but the kids- Look, half of their parents still haven’t checked in. Kahlee’s gone. I’m the only thing the little shits have, and I can’t just _abandon them_.”

The last comes out as a whisper, barely audible above the noise of the crowd.

“Of course,” Samara says, gently, and thinks of her own children. Of her child, really.

“Sorry,” Jack says, again, this time in a more normal voice.

“There is nothing to apologize for,” Samara tells her.

Jack shakes her head.

“Was that it? I’ve got shit to do.”

“Yes,” Samara says, and gets to her feet.

Jack snags one of the datapads from the stack, and leans back in her chair.

Before Samara can even take a step, another question occurred to her.

“Why did you think I was organizing her funeral?”

“Well, it made sense. You always were her fucking favorite.”

\--

Her favorite, Samara muses, as she leaves the dim and the din of Jack’s bar behind her, and heads for her next destination.

She supposes that is not entirely inaccurate.

She is almost certain that Shepard didn’t claim a- well, to use her words, a connection with anyone else on the ship.

She is certain that any other person on the ship might have accepted her offer. Shepard was an honorable woman, and more than just that. She was brave. Competent. Kind, somehow. And best of all, she had understood why Samara had chosen the code, in a way that few had.

So perhaps Samara might have accepted something. Might have thought, once or twice, what might have come if she had leaned in and kissed Shepard back when she had the option.

But then, of course, she could not lie to herself. It was next to impossible, being a satisfactory partner, when you were forbidden from prioritizing them above your duty, even for a moment. Settling down would have been downright impossible- a Justicar could do no such thing.

So she had taken the path of wisdom, letting Shepard down.

But it did not make her bed any less empty.

Samara though that sentence, and then shook off her self-pity. She has arrived at the Krogan section of the city, and she needs her wits about her.

Samara has never met Urdnot Wrex in person.

This is not to say, of course, that she does not know him.

There are a few things that one cannot avoid, if one is to spend any length of time on the Normandy. The Normandy forums are the most pleasant of those things, and one of the few that she had kept even as she left the ship. She made few posts, as a general rule, but it was nearly impossible to avoid being drawn into flame wars or to avoid knowing about memes. And well, she had joined a few conversations.

So Samara is not precisely surprised when as she approaches the Krogan camp, she is met at the entrance by a small knot of them.

She is rather surprised when she draws close enough to recognize Wrex himself, striding forward to meet her.

For a second, Samara wonders how she is meant to greet him. It is difficult to reconcile this seven foot tall leader of the Krogan with his flower crown avatar, and it is not as though she has much experience with meeting friends that she has made online.

Then, Wrex scoops her up (literally up, nearly two feet above the ground) in a bear hug - surprising a bark of laughter out of her in the doing, and the uncertainty is gone.

“Samara,” he roars, when he has set her back on her feet again, “It’s good to finally meet up with you.”

“It’s good to meet you too, Wrex,” she says warmly, smiling despite herself.

“Hah,” Wrex rumbles, “Heard you were headed to the front lines. Didn’t think you Asari had it in you.”

“The front lines of a battle are the only proper place for a Justicar,” Samara says with a smile, “As the strategist tents are fitting for ancient leaders such as yourself.”

“Hah! Don’t make me laugh. A krogan leader’s place is with his people! Or her people,” he concedes, with a companionable nudge to the krogan on his right, “I’m going to have a few scars to remember the Reapers by.”

“Good to see you’re not all talk,” Samara says, and Wrex gives her a great boyish grin.

"Are you trying to restart the flame wars of ‘83? Because I kicked your ass then, and I can kick your ass now, too.”

“I didn’t lose the flame wars of ‘83. I did not participate in the flame wars of ‘83.”

“Yeah, and Grunt came up with the Asari tactics manual all by himself, did he?”

“He could have gotten that from anywhere. I assure you, he does know how to use the Extranet.”

“Excuse me,” a new voice cuts in, before Wrex can retort, “I don’t think any of us came out here to chat.”

Samara looks over, at the source of that rough contralto, and finds herself meeting the eyes of the first female Krogan she has seen in nearly four hundred years of traveling the galaxy. Samara would not have thought to find grace in Krogan, but grace is written into every bone of this woman’s body, just as the Krogan strength is written in the way she carries herself, just as ancient wisdom radiates from her fiery eyes.

“Ah,” Wrex says, and reaches up to rub the back of his neck, “I forgot my manners. Eve, this is Samara. Samara, Eve.”

Samara steps forward to shake hands with the other woman.

“Nice to meet you,” she says sincerely.

“Save your breath,” Eve replies, not unkindly, “And come inside. We have chairs for a reason.”

“Of course,” Samara says, and follows her into the Krogan quarters of London.

The place reminds her of Tuchanka, although that is an easy comparison to make, as London is just as much a ruin as the Krogan homeworld now. Still, she has never seen any species but Krogan look so comfortable using pieces of rubble as chairs.

The room Eve leads them to, and oh, but it is amusing to watch the leader of the Krogan trail behind her like an obedient schoolchild, does not have any proper seating. It does have chunks of rock arranged into structures that do, in a certain light, resemble chairs, a large chunk of irregular concrete that most definitely is meant to be a table, and a large hole in the ceiling.

Samara settles herself in one of the chairs, though she cannot but wince a little at Wrex’s graceless flop onto his hard stone seat. Surely that must be uncomfortable even for a Krogan.

“So,” Wrex rumbles, as Eve crosses around the table to another open seat, “What do you need? Your post was awfully vague.”

“So I’ve been told,” Samara says, and cannot quite suppress a blink as Eve settles onto her seat with a thump that rattles even the sturdy table, “I am forming a search party for Shepard. I need allies.”

“You really think she might be alive?” Eve says, her tone completely neutral.

“It’s Shepard,” Wrex answers, “She already escaped the void once. No sense in doubting her twice.”

“Hm,” grunts Eve.

“We owe her,” Wrex insists, “She’s done more for the Krogan in under a decade than we’ve done for ourselves in a thousand years. And we have only begun to repay that debt.”

“We did save her homeworld from the Reapers.”

“Only because her homeworld happened to be in the same spot as the galaxy. She needs our help, Eve.”

“You forget,” Eve says, sharply, “That she was my friend too. It’s not as though you have to convince me she’s worth saving. And we can certainly spare one warrior for Samara’s team.”

“Great,” Wrex says, “I’ll get suited up then.”

“Not _you_ ,” Eve snaps.

“Why not? Are you implying I can’t fight as well as any one of those clowns you’ve got guarding these hallways, or pulling rubble off Salarian children?”

“No, I’m saying that you’re the leader of the Krogan, Wrex. You’re too important to go haring off after every quest that catches your fancy.”

“This is hardly just another quest, Eve. It’s Shepard.”

“And your people need you too much for you to leave them. Not now. Shepard would understand.”

“Yeah,” Wrex sighs, “She would.”

“Send Grunt,” Eve presses, “He knew her. He even called her his Battlemaster, for a time.”

“For a time, huh? Do you really think he’ll want to go?”

“I think,” Eve says, “That you should let him decide for himself.”

“Fine,” Wrex grumbles, “Send for the kid. And if he doesn’t want to, I’m going.”

“Humph,” Eve says, non-committal. Samara senses that there will be more of a fight than Wrex is insinuating.

She hopes that Grunt will be willing to go but-

Well, asking for help is hardly the only thing that the forums are good for. They are, incidentally, excellent at newskeeping (although the reporting tends to be along the lines of “HOLY FUCK SHEPARD SUMMONED A THRESHER MAW AND IT ATE A REAPER HOW IS THIS MY LIFE” (courtesy of Mr. Vega)), and continued to update even when most other sources had gone dark.

So she knows about what happened to Arlakah Company.

And while she does think that Shepard made the right choice, while permanently eradicating another species would be the height of dishonorable behavior, it was not her company that was killed.

Grunt was rather angry.

Samara cannot say that she blames him. Nor does she think that Shepard does not understand.

From outside the door, there is a muddle of Krogan voices, and the sharp smack of flesh on flesh. If she’s not mistaken, it sounds like a headbutt.

Grunt walks through the door with a bit of a swagger.

“Keeping the troops in line?” Wrex calls to him, with good-natured humor.

“Only because you can’t, old man,” Grunt shouts back, and trots to the table. He looks well, for a Krogan she knows was on the front lines of the battle.

“You should respect your elders,” Wrex grumbles.

“Pah,” Grunt says.

“He’s not wrong,” Eve cuts in, “You could learn a thing or two from him – especially in battle.”

“Eve,” Grunt says, nodding to her with a good deal more respect than he granted Wrex, and then, upon seeing her, “Samara?”

“Hello,” she replies, and inclines her head to him.

Grunt thumps himself down on another one of the bits of rubble, and says,

“So. What’s the occasion?”

“Samara is going on a quest to find Shepard,” Wrex says, “She needs a team. Eve won’t let me go, so we’re asking you.”

“I’m in,” Grunt says, immediately, “Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”

“I made a post on the forums,” Samara tells him.

“Oh. Heh heh, that explains it. My omni-tool got busted back in the battle, and I haven’t got the time to fix it.”

“You’re sure you want to go?” Eve asks, with the same calm neutrality that she addressed Samara with earlier.

“Why wouldn’t- Oh. You’re worried about what happened to Arlakah.”

Grunt looks somewhat surprised at that.

Eve inclines her head.

　

“No,” Wrex says, “But I didn’t think you’d want to be out here.”

“Just because I’m mad at Shepard doesn’t mean I don’t want to save her sorry ass.”

Wrex blinks at him, a single, assessing flicker of orange eyes, and says, softly,

“You’re wiser than I was, at your age.”

“Pah. Can’t yell at her if she’s dead.”

“True,” Eve cuts in, “Remember that, pup.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“You never call _me_ sir,” Wrex grumbles petulantly.

“That’s because you’re old,” Grunt says.

“Eve’s just as old as I am,” Wrex replies, still petulant.

“Yeah, but she could probably take me in a fight.”

“When you get back kid, we’re going to have a chat about that,” Wrex rumbles.

“Hah!” Grunt barks, “I look forward to it. So where’s the fight?”

“We will meet on the Citadel tommorrow,” Samara says, “Do not be late.”

“As if!” Grunt rumbles, “It’s good to see you again, asari.”

“Likewise, Grunt.”

“Now go get packed,” Wrex growls, and Grunt gives him a nod, and wanders out of the room.

—

Samara has yet to receive any other offers to meet with her. Jacob is injured, she has heard, or perhaps he is busy with his new wife and coming child and does not want to risk himself. Samara cannot- and in truth, does not want to - pull him away from that.

She is rather fond of Jacob, who is an uncomplicatedly good man.

But it is the rare good man (or woman) who is also an unfailingly just one - and so she has not tried to make friends with him, and so she will not ask him why he has not volunteered to come with her, for fear of an answer which will compel her to action.

She had thought Justicars fearless, when she was younger.

Now, she has come to realize that the Justicar order and every woman in it fears at least one thing. Itself.

But that is an old train of thought, and one she has walked far too many times. It is simple enough to pull herself out of it, and simpler still to return her focus to the walk ahead of her. London is all but destroyed, the towers she had thought idly of visiting with her children when she was a matron gone, but there are still places to sit and watch the sky, and she finds one of them, settles for a moment and begins to clear her mind for meditation.

And suddenly, there are footsteps behind her.

Samara does not turn, but she does open her eyes.

“Samara,” a familiar voice says quietly, “I heard you were building a team.”

“Miranda,” she says, and tilts her head so that she can meet the human’s eyes.

“I-” Miranda stops. Swallows. “I want in.”

“I would be glad to have you,” Samara says gently.

Miranda, who had been in the middle of gathering some words, perhaps to persuade her, blinks.

“Thank you,” she says.

Samara, who has developed, over almost four centuries of being on the receiving end of confessions from both the guilty and the innocent, and nearly a century and a half of raising teenage Asari, an acute sense of when someone needs to get something off of their chest, remains patiently silent.

Miranda, after a couple expectant seconds, settles down beside her.

“I’m sorry,” Miranda says eventually, “It’s just- It’s been a while since I could just ask for something. And expect to get it, I mean. I’ve been fighting for resources and manpower pretty much since Shepard sent me to the Alliance.”

She stops.

Inhales.

Samara makes an encouraging noise.

Miranda lets out a slow breath.

“And I do want to help find Shepard. I owe her just as much as any of you, even if-”

Miranda trails off.

“Even if there are some who would say that she ruined your life, instead of saving it.” Samara offers, when it seems that Miranda’s conversational skills are about to fail her.

“Yes,” Miranda says quietly.

“I assume that you are not one of them.” Samara says.

“I- No. It would be easier if I could blame it on Shepard but- Cerberus is gone anyways. And I made the decision to join them in the first place. I just wonder- Well, we all wonder, how much of it was a lie?”

“I’m afraid I cannot answer that,” Samara says gently.

“No,” Miranda says, and shakes her head, “No, you wouldn’t be able to. I’m sorry for pushing all of this on you, it’s not as though you can help.”

Samara puts a hand on the younger woman’s shoulder and gives it a gentle squeeze.

“Do not be sorry. There is no shame in needing someone to listen.”

Miranda shakes her head, though Samara cannot tell whether it is in denial or simple grief.

Samara gives her a moment.

“See you tomorrow then, at the Citadel?” Miranda says, her voice calm and controlled once again.

“Yes,” Samara says, and gets to her feet, “I look forward to it.”

—

As a general rule, Justicars do not sleep in the same bed for more than one night in a row.

So it is strange, to come back to the little pad that the Asari government secured for her to find it the same as it was when she left it. Strange, but not unpleasant, and she settles herself down on the little bed to check her omni-tool before she gets her night’s sleep. She sent messages to everyone who might have cared if she died, everyone who had made her promise to come out of this alive.

It is a small weakness, to sit down on her bed and check her messages with anything like hope. The coms are still irregular, after all, and Justicars are expected to remain above such things as worry- but it is not a bad thing, she thinks, to wish to soothe the worries of others.

Falere has not replied yet.

Samara ignores the cold feeling in her gut. The coms are not yet repaired. This is earth, they were all but destroyed. It will be another few weeks before anyone would have cause to worry for her daughter.

She scrolls down, to the contacts section and blinks.

Atora is online.

Before Samara can talk herself out of it, she reaches down and flicks the call button.

She is just beginning to regret that when the screen flickers to life, and another face pops up in front of the screen.

Atora is, as she always has been, beautiful. Her skin is a darker blue than Samara’s, dark enough to make her facial markings stand out in vivid white. Her eyes are violet- and outlined in white, the only feature of which she was vain. Atora had been disappointed when none of their children had inherited that color, disappointed that the genetic shuffling hadn’t chosen that trait to pass on. But she’d loved them anyways, just as-

“Samara?” Atora’s voice cuts through her thoughts.

“My apologies,” Samara says, “I did not mean to ignore you.”

“I’m just happy you called. Honestly, I thought you died down there.”

Samara inclines her head.

Atora says nothing.

“I am glad that you are alive as well,” Samara says.

Atora shudders.

“I’m just grateful I wasn’t on Thessia. How did you make it out alive? Or did you-”

“I was not on Thessia when the Reapers struck,” Samara says, and does not mention where she was, because, while she and Atora have reached the point where they can carry on civil conversation about most topics there are, there probably always will be the things that they will never be able to speak of without screaming.

Their daughters are one such topic. The topic that drove the rift between them in the first place, the topic that took Samara from the lifetime that she had known, the great masterpiece of contentment that was her married life, the children that she loved and the bondmate she loved just as much and the certainty that these things would not change in her lifetime and would instead-

She had been naive then, in ways that she hadn’t even realized it was possible to be.

It has been centuries since Samara raised her voice in anger, and longer still since she was the maiden who cried at any sort of confrontation, regardless of whether she felt it was worth the energy of her tears, and she would not want to discover, here and now, that she is still fundamentally that girl. So she says nothing, and Atora interprets her silence correctly, or does not interpret it at all, and asks, instead,

“Where are you now?”

“London,” Samara says, and Atora takes in a hissing breath.

“Really Samara? That’s almost as bad as Thessia. Goddess, a woman could think you want to kill yourself.”

“It was only proper.”

“Yeah. Because Justicars are supposed to be the big fucking frontline heroes and all that.”

“Yes.”

Atora takes a deep breath.

“Well, tell me you’re going to take a couple of days away from the suicide missions. Oh, don’t look at me like that, I know Justicars aren’t allowed days off. Maybe like save some kittens from concrete slabs or something. Just-”

“I am not trained for reconstruction, so there is little enough I can do here.”

“So you’re headed back to Asari space?”

“Not yet. I am going to try and find Shepard.”

“Shepard? Commander Shepard? Why the fuck would you do that?”

“She is a symbol of hope-”

“She’s a goddamn human. What does it matter if you bring her back now, she’ll just kick it in a couple decades anyways? Look, Samara, you should come home-”

“I cannot do that. Any more than I can give up on Shepard.”

“Seriously?”

“You know the answer to that.”

“Goddess. I don’t even know you some days.”

Samara inclines her head, again. That is a well-healed wound to her, but Atora will never see it that way. Atora misses her bondmate.

“Just- Just be safe, alright? And don’t get too hung up on the humans.”

Samara terminates the call, and wonders, distantly, why she chose to call in the first place.

—

The next morning, Samara rises before the sun, as is her habit, and takes the next transport to the Citadel, as is necessary.

Hackett is, of course, waiting for her.

His aide has been replaced, she notes, by an androgynous figure in battle armor and a mask.

They don’t speak. Samara doesn’t see the need to acknowledge them.

“You have a team?” Hackett asks.

“Of course,” Samara says, calm and perfectly civil, “They should be arriving shortly.”

“Good,” Hackett says, equally neutral, “We’ve rigged up some scaffolding. You should be able to just walk through.”

“Thank you,” Samara says, “Have you done any investigating onto the other side?”

“Just enough to determine that Shepard’s body isn’t immediately on he other side. And that that place, whatever it is, is creepy.”

“Thank you.”

“Thank me when you get out of this,” Hackett says, simply, “And good luck in there. I’ve got a feeling you’ll need it.”

Samara concurs completely.

This mission involves Shepard.

Of course it won’t be as simple as it looks.


	2. Chapter 2

This reminds Miranda of the mission to the derelict Reaper- the one that they were studying.

The supposedly derelict Reaper.

Reapers have a way of never actually being dead, even when by all rights they should be, which Miranda finds worrying and ironic in equal measure and at different times. Shepard, after all, has a habit of not actually dying, even when you go to great lengths to make sure that he’s killed. And by you, she means the Reapers. Not her. Never her.

Because sad as it is, Shepard is her best friend, possibly the only one, depending on what Jacob is thinking, if he’s forgiven her for the thousand little things that drove them apart in the first place.

It was never going to last, what the two of them had, but she had hoped-

Well, nevermind what she had hoped.

She has got to stop distracting herself and focus, lest whatever is in this thing get the jump on her. On them.

She shouldn’t be in danger, she knows that.

She’s not even armed, not posing a threat to it, she is theoretically on a mission of peace and yet-

Shepard is involved. That means that things are likely to get complicated and get complicated faster than you can jump from Hades Gamma to the Citadel.

So Miranda shakes her head a little, and returns her attention to the corridor in front of her, where it should have been all along.

God, this place is unfairly twisty.

After about the third sudden right turn, she’d gotten the impression that it was happening on purpose. After the fifth one, she had to seriously consider the idea.

And now, as she’s coming up on the tenth abrupt hall end that turns into a blind right, she’s wondering just what it is that the ship and its probable architect is trying to do.

She rounds the corner, picking out a few choice words for when she sees him, and nearly smacks into a woman on the other side.

For a second, she thinks what’s Oriana doing here

And then, her companions, as one, take in a sharp breath and she realizes-

She’s not looking at an older Oriana.

She’s looking at herself.

—

Carolina Shepard wakes up with an absence of a headache.

Considering that whatever it was that she did last night was, uh, interesting enough that she can’t remember it at all, the absence of the headache is much more noticeable than having one would have been. If she’d had a headache, she’d just have chalked it up to another night on the town.

Since she doesn’t . . .

Carolina levers herself to a sitting position, dislodging sheets in the process, and pries her eyes open.

There’s sunlight.

There’s sunlight, and she’s in a tastefully furnished room with flowery wallpaper, on a bed with clean white sheets, in a room with a window that’s almost bigger than the door, and looks out on impossibly green grass (grass? Actual grass? God, she hasn’t seen that since the ICT), and there is a cup of tea on her bedside table-

And it’s wrong.

Someplace like this shouldn’t exist. It couldn’t possibly, because-

Because-

Oh.

And the memories from last night, and last week, and last month rushed in, and Carolina let herself slump back on her pillows.

Oh.

_Well, she’d never believed in an afterlife, but it wasn’t as though she was complaining about this. And, all things considered, taking out the Reapers wasn’t a_ bad _way to die._

Carolina considers sleeping in, for the first time since she’d left Earth. Considers, but can’t quite imagine doing it. So she pulls herself to a sitting position with a groan, and notes wryly that whoever chose the default clothing for afterlife excursions had no idea about her tastes. The stupid thing was white, and lacy, and as far a cry from anything she had ever owned as one of the stripper costumes in Aria’s bar. But well, it should have been obvious from the freaking tea that they had no idea about her. She’d never had more than one cup of that shit in her life, it was always-

Just then, there’s a polite knock on the door.

Carolina freezes.

“Uh, come in,” she says, carefully.

The door creaks open, and a familiar face pokes his head around the doorframe.

_“Come on,” he says, and oh, the teasing voice is exactly,_ exactly _as she remembered it, “Is that any way to greet your long-lost husband?”_

“Shepard,” Carolina exclaims, and launches herself out of the bed to throw her arms around him and cling.

Because damn. She could get used to the whole afterlife thing.

\---  
  
Miranda takes a step back, a deep breath, and then notices the other version of herself doing the same and loses every inch of calm she managed to regain.

And then her other self opens her eyes, and visibly comes to the same conclusion.

“Miranda,” Samara says, calmly, because there might be something capable of shocking a thousand year old justicar, but it is not this, “Can you tell us what is going on?”

Miranda takes another deep breath, carefully keeping her eyes off of her other self, because if the other her is doing the same thing, she doesn’t want to know about it, and says,

“I have no idea.”

And then, from further down the hall, a familiar salarian voice says,

“Fascinating. Resemblance uncanny, almost perfect. Surprise genuine. Clone? No, would be younger, unless somehow preserved-”

“Mordin?” Grunt says from behind her, his voice as genuinely shocked as she has ever heard it.

“Grunt?” Mordin blinks and something like- like guilt flashes across his face. It doesn’t make any sense at all, so perhaps it’s something else. Miranda has never had occasion to learn to read salarian faces. He opens his mouth and, for the first time that she has seen, shuts it again immediately.

“But you died,” Grunt says again, “You died in the shroud.”

“Yes. Well. It was necessary, you see-”

“No,” Grunt rumbles again, “Shepard saw you. Wrex recovered your body himself.”

“They gave you a warrior’s burial,” Samara chimes in, her ancient eyes fastened, unwavering to Mordin’s face, “Wrex himself placed the first stones of the monument. I could not attend, but I was assured that it was fitting of your help in curing the genophage.”

“Wrex?” Mordin says, after another beat of absolute, stunned silence.

“The leader of the krogan,” Miranda says, “I recall, you two knew each other fairly well. According to the forums at least.”

“Urdnot Wrex died on Virmire,” an unfamiliar male voice says, “I know that. I was there.”

Miranda glances over at the dark haired man. He looks vaguely familiar, as though she’s seen him somewhere before. She hasn’t seen him in person, she’s sure of that, but-

“What?” Grunt says, “He’s not dead. I talked to him this morning.”

“Incorrect. Urdnot Wreav leader of krogan. Never met Urdnot Wrex.”

“You would have liked him,” the man says, and then Miranda realizes.

“You’re Kaidan Alenko.”

“Yeah?” he says, blinking at her, “I know we haven’t really met, but-”

“But you died on Virmire.”

“ _What?_ ”

“It was in the files. Shepard’s history of service. Possible psychological weaknesses. They showed your burial, the letter she wrote, the complete-”

“That was Williams,” the other Miranda says, with a too-familiar frown, “Ashley Williams. Shepard talked about her sometimes if-”

“I’ve met Williams. She’s not dead,” Miranda snarls, distantly aware of Grunt’s background protests, of Samara’s silent eyes on them all, but it’s not important, because she is _right_ about this, she knows it-

“But she _is_!” the other Miranda says, with the exact same conviction, and it is that, more than anything, which makes Miranda step back from the argument, and take a breath.

“Why are you here?” Miranda asks, instead of shouting the way she wants to.

“On this ship?”

“Obviously.”

“That’s classified.”

“Do you _really_ think that matters right now?”

“Shut up,” the other Miranda snarls. “We’re here to find Shepard. Or what’s left of him, anyways.”

“What’s _left_ of her?” Miranda says.

“Wait, him? I thought Shepard was a girl.”

“Of course she is,” Miranda says, at the same time that the other Miranda says, “Of course he isn’t.”

Miranda stops, glances at her other self, and experiences the uncomfortable certainty that the woman across from her is exactly as shocked as she is.

Samara blinks, and suddenly, the full weight of her ancient attention turns to the other Miranda, and she says, softly,

“Tell me about your Shepard,” she says, and Miranda doesn’t miss the subtle emphasis on your.

“He was- His name is Peter. Peter Shepard. He’s- He was devoted to protecting humanity, and to protecting his team.”

“He was magnetic,” Kaidan chimes in, his voice distant and soft, “Capable. He drew people to him. Lots of people thought he was intimidating, I never did. He was a widower, and if you got him drunk he’d tell you stories about his wife. Handsome too. He taught me a lot.”

“Practical,” Mordin says, “Ruthless. Liked him. But yours was different? Opposite gender? Obviously, reaction to pronoun telling. Difficult to believe you are telling the truth.”

“I would not lie,” Samara says.

“Of course not. Justicar code,” he inhales sharply, “restrictive.”

“Indeed.”

“So wait,” Grunt rumbles, “There are two Shepards?”

“Could have been twins,” Mordin suggests, with a hint of doubt.

“No,” Miranda and Miranda say, in complete unison, and then Miranda has to take a moment to reclaim her train of thought from the brief moment of ‘augh’ that ensues.

The other Miranda is marginally faster to recover, and so it is she that says,

“We- _I_ did extensive background work on Shepard. I would have known if he had any siblings.”

“I did as well,” Miranda says, because pretending that the ‘we’ never happened is probably the best option at this point, “And she had none. Besides, there are other problems with that. You can’t expect me to believe that there was originally another one of me floating around the universe. That Mordin is both dead and standing right in front of me. That Kaidan and Wrex did and didn’t die on Virmire. There must be some explanation for this.”

“We could be in a mirror universe,” Grunt rumbles.

Everyone takes a moment to process that one.

“Grunt,” Samara says, finally, “Remember the conversation that we had about believing Joker when he talks about human TV shows?”

“I know that Star Trek isn’t a documentary,” Grunt says, the ‘duh’ fully implied, “But it’s not like any of you have better explanations.”

Which is, unfortunately, completely true. As evidenced by the two or three seconds of silence that happen while everyone tries to come up with one.

“So,” Kaidan says, finally, “What do we do now?”

—

Shepard laughs, soft and delighted, and crushes her closer to his chest.

I missed you _, she says, pushing herself a little bit away so he can hear her._

I missed you too, _he says, and drags her back into his chest. She’d always been a little jealous of his height, but she couldn’t help but admit that it was nice, to be able to almost submerge herself in his chest,_ But hey. We’re back together now.

That we are, _she says,_ And we’ll stay together.

Shepard stiffens in her arms.

Shepard, _she says, warningly._

Sorry, _he says, with a classic Sheepish Shepard Grin,_ I can’t make any promises there. You know how it is.

Unfortunately, _Carolina says, thinking of admirals and fussy dalatrasses and old friends and the Reaper war and its tangled web of demands and alliances,_ I do. But come on, man, this is the Afterlife. If it doesn’t involve the end of sentient life as we know it, then it is not important enough to leave the house for. That’s a new rule, I’m calling it.

The end of sentient life as we know it, _he asks, mildly._

Yeah, _she says with a shrug._

You’ll have to tell me about it someday, _Shepard says, with the little crease between his brows that he always gets whenever someone says something he didn’t anticipate._

Carolina shrugs.

It’s over with now. I’ll tell you the story someday, but I don’t know if you’ll like it.

Oh?

It begins with ‘my favorite freakishly tall idiot up and died on me’.

Shepard lets out a snort.

Allow me to extend an apology for that.

Carolina barks a laugh, and threads an arm through his.

It wasn’t your fault, really. But I did miss you. Now come on, your tea is getting cold.

My tea?

_Carolina gestures at it._ You were the one that set up this little tea party. Therefore it’s your tea.

It was for you, _Shepard says petulantly._

If it was really for me, you’d have filled the cups with vodka. You know I hate this stuff.

Shepard blinks at her, and then barks a little laugh.

I actually forgot, _he says,_ Imagine that.

He flicks a hand out, and by the time Carolina’s eyes have followed the gesture to the table, the lacy little wire number that she could’ve broken on a salarian head is gone, replaced with something that looks like it’s worth sitting on, and a pot that smells comfortingly like coffee.

You have got to teach me how to do that, _she says, with a little laugh, and leans up on her tiptoes to peck him on the cheek._

He grins at her, and then snakes a hand around the base of her neck, and pulls her in for a proper kiss.

_—_

“Is splitting up really the best idea that we can come up with,” Miranda (her Miranda) asks, for the fifth time.

“It does seem to be,” Samara says, for what is hopefully the final time. Truth be told, she does not want to split up either.

But such thoughts are useless, and not befitting of a Justicar, so she ignores the emotion, and turns her attention to the truth of the statements beneath. They need to cover a lot of ground if they are going to find Shepard. Either Shepard. And splitting apart will allow them to cover much more ground.

It still feels like a bad idea.

Not least because Grunt has been proclaiming to anyone who will listen that they are violating the cardinal rules of human horror movies, and that they are all going to die.

“I will go with Kaidan,” Samara says, “Grunt?”

“I want to go with Mordin,” he rumbles.

“Then it shall be so,” Samara says,

There is really nothing to do at that point but pick one of the corridor’s branches and go. Miranda- both Mirandas, look violently uncomfortable with each other, but they both have left before Samara can so much as suggest that one of them switch with her.

So she is left alone with Kaidan, who died before she could even meet him, and who does not look much more comfortable with her than Miranda did with her counterpart.

He keeps glancing at her out of the corner of his eye, and making as if to start a conversation, and then realizing halfway through his sentence that she is a Justicar, and is one of the more intimidating Asari that he will ever have the fortune to meet.

On any other occasion, she would take pity on him, and start a conversation.

On this one, she is too absorbed in finding Shepard to have patience for any other mysteries. And while there are many of them here, not least of which are the people and the question of how Shepard even got here, she has trained herself well in the art of suppressing her curiosity, and she truly does not need to know why Shepard is here to get her home.

Assuming, of course, that they can find her.

Assuming that they can even find their way back.

She is interrupted on this morbid train of thought by Kaidan, who finally manages to come up with a sentence that he’s willing to say.

“I never got to meet the you from this . . .” He searches visibly for a plausible word, and then, to his visible dismay, goes with, “universe.”

“Nor I you. I presume that I died on the suicide mission.”

“Probably,” Kaidan says, “Shepard never said.”

They make it down another half of a hallway before he says, “Sorry, that was a little bit morbid.”

“Indeed.”

“I died instead of Ashley in your timeline, right?”

“As far as I can tell, yes.”

Kaidan shudders a little.

Samara cannot help but think it karmic.

They take another random right, another branch in this sprawling tree of a ship, and Kaidan asks,

“So, what was your Shepard like?”

Samara just barely manages not to stop in the middle of the hallway.

There is no real way to answer that question. Shepard was Shepard, bright and bold, strong and honorable, older sometimes than some of the matriarchs Samara had met and still human, in all of the best ways.

“I mean,” Kaidan says, “I told you about Peter.”

The implication that she should, therefore, share, is left implied. Samara considers it.

“She was-” Samara stops, her voice failing her. Her thoughts failing her, more like. She does not know how to say what Shepard was- what Shepard is.

Or rather, she knows the words, but she is not willing to say them. Not to a stranger.

Not to anyone, really. Least of all herself.

“She was an honorable woman,” Samara says, finally, “And a friend.”

Kaidan looks at her, with something like understanding.

Samara finds that she cannot meet his eyes.

“It’s funny,” Kaidan says, eventually, “Do you think every universe has a Shepard?”

“I wouldn’t know,” Samara replies.

“Or if they’re all called that?” he continues, “I mean, it’s too big a coincidence. We both have humans that saved us from the Reapers. Both of their last names are Shepard. That can’t just be random chance.”

“Speculation on the nature of reality is useless,” Samara tells him.

“But doesn’t it strike you as a little odd?”

“It would not be the strangest coincidence I have come across.”

“Then, pardon my language ma’am, you must have had a hell of a life.”

“Indeed,” Samara tells him.

And then, without ceremony or warning, she ducks through an entranceway, and finds herself in a chamber the size of a city, sterile as the rest of the ship, filled to the rim with wires and black pods and-

Are those dragon’s teeth?

“This looks like a Reaper ship,” Samara says, and prays to anyone listening that she is not right.

“That’s because,” Kaidan says, in the air of someone speaking the painfully obvious, “It is a Reaper ship.”

“And your Shepard could be found _here._ Of his own free will?” Samara crosses her arms. It is hardly the action of a just person.

“It’s a long story.”

“I think,” Samara says, “That you had best take the time to tell it.”

—

You’re going? _Carolina says, and she’s halfway between sad and a little annoyed._

Sorry, _he says,_ But I have to. I’ll be back soon, and I shouldn’t have to go away again.

Something about that sounds a little scary. But Carolina can’t quite put a finger on what, and she’s dead, so the special operations instincts probably aren’t relevant.

Sorry _, he says again, and then turns and walks out the door._

And then the phone rings.

Carolina blinks.

She didn’t even think there was a phone in here.

Although it would make sense, given that houses are generally equipped -

The phone rings again.

She decides that she should probably answer the phone before she tries to determine what the hell a phone is doing in the probably-afterlife.

Just as she hits the answer button, she comes up with a more pertinent question.

Phones in the afterlife make about as much sense as chairs in the afterlife, which is to say that while there’s no real reason that there should be a phone in the afterlife, that’s less of an issue than who the hell would be calling her, now that she’s dead.

But it’s too late.

She’s picked up the receiver.

Now, it’s time to figure out what they have to say.

Shepard-Commander?

Legion, _she gasps, and wraps her fingers a little tighter around the receiver. Legion was always her favorite._

We do not recognize any units by that name.

Huh?

We, _the voice, which still sounds a lot like Legion,_ Are the Geth.

The Geth? _Carolina asks,_ Why are the Geth here?

We are here to investigate you. _They say, calm and quiet._

Why me?

We have been monitoring the Old Machines, and you are the first code anomaly that we have observed. The first potential weakness.

The Old Machines, _Carolina asks, thinking no, no, please no, please, let it be easy, just this once._

Your people call them the Reapers. Until, perhaps, they were defeated. But they are not asleep, and they are dangerous.

No, _Carolina says, soft and futile._

You are distressed, _the Geth observe._

Yes, _Carolina says._

Why?

Because I don’t want to fight anymore.

We apologize then. The Geth understand that. But we must ask you anyways. The Old Machines have become something that is, irregular. It is endangering us, and more of the species. We ask you, human, Shepard-Commander, to help us.

_Shepard takes a slow breath and tries not to sob._

_Sure. But there’s one condition._

—

It’s funny.

This is the first time that Grunt’s been within two feet of the Salarian that he hasn’t been babbling on at a million miles an hour.

He thought he’d enjoy it more.

Well, not really. The salarian’s chatter was kind of like the bubbling of the tank, soothing once you got used to it, annoying if you ever focused on the fact that it wasn’t going away.

He’d never understood the urge that humans (and Garrus) had- the one where they always had to be talking about things and couldn’t let anyone just sit around and be quiet. But now, he sort of wanted to say something, just because it was wrong that Mordin was silent.

Grunt glances over (and down) at the salarian.

Mordin is looking back.

“Would like to know,” the salarian says, “What I did in the other world.”

“You cured the genophage. You saved our race.”

Mordin sniffed.

“I believed that the Krogan would not be a threat to the galaxy.”

“Heh. Mostly.”

“Obviously more than mostly, if I was willing- no, no. Something went differently. Eve survived, perhaps?”

“Eve _died_ in your world?”

“Yes. Not enough research, couldn’t save her. Sorry, about that. Was my friend.”

“You were hers, too.”

“Saved her, in your world, I presume?”

“Yeah. She and Wrex named her first kid after you.”

“Wrex? Krogan, presumably.”

“He’s the leader of the Krogan. You don’t know him?”

“No. Died on Virmire, according to Shepard. Out of curiosity, what was his policy on turians? Salarians?”

“Didn’t want to go to war with them. Hah! The rest of the Krogan thought he was weak for that.”

The salarian turns his eyes back to the path.

“Suppose they would. Would have liked it if this- this Wrex had survived. Do you think he was weak?”

“I did, for a while. Shepard said he had the right idea, though.”

“A while. Not now?”

“No.”

The corridors seemed uncomfortably tight, all of a sudden.

“Would like to know why,” Mordin says, gently.

“Only because you saved my entire species. Look, we krogan have a policy. If you killed it, it was weak. If you didn’t want it dead and it died, go out there and avenge it. There’s no time for grief.

“Sensible. Especially on Tuchanka.”

“Maybe. But it doesn’t help with things like _sacrifice_ and _duty.”_

_“_ Krogan do not value-”

“Krogan don’t have them. Krogan have honor. It’s not the same thing, really. One of them involves self-preservation.”

“Indeed.”

“And you know, I thought it was like that for all species. Like, they’re dead, sure, get over it. Avenge them, if you have to. Shepard’s whole thing about sacrificing your life was weird, and I figured it was a human thing. Or a battlemaster thing. Or something.”

“Battlemaster? Thought humans weren’t battlemasters.”

“She helped me kill a thresher maw. On foot. Figured she earned the title.”

“Indeed.”

“But then she had to choose - save my company, or save the rachni queen. I left the decision up to her.”

“She chose the queen?”

“Yes.”

“And?”

“And my squad died. And I didn’t want them dead, and I didn’t want Shepard dead, and I realized that this was what war was like for you. All of you. You sacrifice something you want for something that might possibly spare you a few more lives and it works or it doesn’t, but you’re sad either way. So I don’t think the Krogan should fight the turians after this is all over. They’d miss the whole point of it.”

“Hmm. Profound. Surprising from krogan.”

“Pah. You asked.”

“I did, and I am glad you answered. Would have liked to know you in my timeline.”

“Wait, where was I?”

“Not sure. Actually, no, believe Shepard left you in the tank.”

“Why? Did he not think I was strong enough?” Grunt demands.

“Probably not. Thought you would be violent. Uncontrollable.”

“Shepard didn’t have a problem with that.” Grunt mutters, carefully not saying that the first thing he did when he got out of the tank was try to fight her.

She’d never said she minded that. Never held it against him. Not to his face at least.

“I wonder,” Mordin says, unhelpfully.

Grunt decides then and there that he doesn’t really need to continue the conversation.

The other Mordin seems to be okay with that, at least until he isn’t.

“Hmm,” Mordin says, “Life signs up ahead. Mostly human? Your Shepard, perhaps. Could be Miranda. Or Miranda.”

“Stop chattering about it, and get going,” Grunt says, a little more sharply than he meant it. and turns the corner.

It’s another one of the weird bulkhead rooms, the ones with a lot of tech and a weird feeling of wrongness about them. Like the brutes back when they were actually fighting the reapers, or the derelict Reaper that they’d gone on.

Or maybe it was just the tubes.

Whatever.

“Interesting,” Mordin murmurs, “First large room since we entered the Reaper. Wonder what it means? Reaper distraction.”

“Reaper?” Grunt says, and gives Mordin a look, “I thought Shepard destroyed them all.”

“Interesting. Didn’t realize that the Catalyst gave that option.”

“So what happened to them? Are you still fighting?”

Grunt rather hopes not. The Reapers were interesting opponents, but-

Shepard had always been talking about preserving life, and keeping people safe. The tank hadn’t said anything about that, so he’d mostly ignored her, because he hadn’t really understood. There was a good fight, why bother ending it?

And then Arlakah Company had gone down and he’d understood. War got people hurt. Killed them.

It was a good fight, but nothing good came without a price, and this one was steeper than it looked. The tank said things about prices.

Shepard’s face, after she’d chosen the Rachni, said more.

“Shepard took over. For the Reapers. All of them. Reason for coming here, has been behaving erratically, ordering them to kill. Hope to stop him.”

“Wait, he took over the Reapers?”

“It would seem so,” Samara says, stepping out from behind a bulkhead. The other human, Kaidan something, trails behind her, looking rather like a kicked puppy.

“He wanted to use them to defend humanity,” the man says, half-defensive, “It’s just-”

“Things went wrong.” Mordin said, simply.

Grunt looks at Samara, raises a brow, and makes the special Normandy signal for ‘what do you think we should do?’.

She pantomimes back ‘wait and see’.

“What are you planning to do about it?” Samara asks, her tone as cold as he’s ever heard it.

“We’re going to talk to him,” the human says, promptly, “See if we can’t get him to change his mind.”

“And if he won’t listen?”

The human looks away. It’s Mordin who answers.

“Will have to end him. Cannot go on like this.”

“We’ll help,” Grunt says, “If your Shepard’s anything like ours, you’ll need it.”

“Indeed,” Samara says, “After, of course, we have tracked down our Shepard.”

Mordin inclines his head.

“Suggest we keep to this room. Larger space more likely to have-”

_Boom_.

The sound flows through the room in a gigantic concussive wave that staggers Grunt, and would have blown the Salarian off his feet if Grunt hadn’t reached out and caught him.

The other two are less affected, but that might just be because Samara throws up a barrier between them and the blast.

“That was . . .” Kaidan says, and shakes his head.

“Probably Shepard,” Grunt tells him, because Shepard _always_ gets the fun explosions.

“Your Shepard?” Mordin says.

“Duh,” Grunt replies, and then starts walking, because Samara has already dropped the barrier, and if she isn’t quite running towards the other side of the room, where the shockwave came from, then she’s certainly walking very fast.

“Could be some kind of trap,” Mordin warns, “Or something dangerous. Architect was obviously not particularly concerned about personal safety.”

“It’s worth checking out, doc,” Kaidan says.

Grunt says nothing, because it’s not as though Samara’s going to stop for anything. Much less anything that these people are saying.

He’ll have to tell Jack when he gets back. She bet a lot of credits that Samara really liked Shepard.

The pulse, as Grunt picks up on halfway across the room, seems to have come from some kind of mass effect core. Or some kind of core at least, it looks too purple to really be a mass effect thing, but Grunt isn’t sure what else that kind of shielding is used for.

“Hmm,” Mordin says, beside him, his omni-tool outstretched, “Doesn’t seem to be designed to produce shockwaves. Or even for defense. Obviously Reaper technoloy, though, never can tell if-”

“Get back!” someone yells, from above them.

The voice is familiar, and Grunt is leaping to obey before he even quite realizes what he’s doing, grabbing the salarian and the human and yanking them backwards, towards Samara, away from the core.

There’s a brief awkward moment when nothing happens.

Then, there’s a great screech of glass as Shepard leaps down from somewhere, slams an omni-blade through the shielding, and uses her weight to drag the blade through about thirty feet of protection, leaving a gaping crack in her wake.

She deactivates the tool just above the little platform they’re standing on and drops, somewhat unceremoniously, into a crouch on the catwalk.

“Samara!” Shepard exclaims, a warning and an order in a single syllable.

Then, the room shakes, and the shielding explodes outward in a flare of glass pieces. Which bounce, mostly harmlessly, off of Samara’s barrier.

For a moment, the room rings in deafening silence.

Then, in a single smooth movement, Shepard gets to her feet. Rolls her shoulders, which makes the weird white human drape that she is wearing rustle in a way that proper armor never should.

“Shepard,” Grunt says.

“Grunt,” she replies, and then, slightly happier, “Samara?”

“Yes,” Samara says warmly.

And then Shepard’s eyes drift over their shoulders and her shoulders start to droop.

“Kaidan. Mordin. Not _again_.”

Her omni-tool activates in a flare of orange light.

“Shepard,” Samara says, “What are you doing?”

“Escaping,” she replies, flatly.

“From what?”

“I had my brain uploaded into some kind of server. Hosted on the Reaper or something, I don’t know how he did it. I thought I had managed to get out. Apparently,” Shepard indicates Mordin with a flick of her head, “I was wrong.”

“Shepard,” Samara says, managing not to sound like she’s talking to a crazy person, “This is real. They aren’t our Mordin and Kaidan. We are in an alternate universe where they survived.”

Shepard blinks at her.

“Alright,” she says, and disactivates her omni-blade, “I don’t think I could come up with that if I were dreaming. What are you guys doing here?”

“We were looking for you,” Samara says, “That dress is lovely, by the way.”

Shepard crosses her arms in front of her chest, and says, a little sharply,

“Don’t flatter me. It looks like a shroud.”

“It looks elegant.”

“It’s meant to look elegant. That’s what you do to the dead,” Shepard grumbles.

“I might have chosen another color,” Samara says.

Shepard barks a laugh.

“I’m too pale for white. And too goddamn old for the princess on a slab nonsense.”

“The what?” Kaidan asks.

“Didn’t you ever see the original Sleeping Beauty?”

“Yes?”

“I woke up on an iron tablet about two hours ago, hands folded and everything.”

“Whoa, okay,” Kaidan says, “I think we need to back up a bit. Why are you here?”

Shepard blinks at him.

“What do you mean?”

“Why are you here? Who brought you?”

“The only person in the galaxy who could have. You know that.”

“But why would he- Shepard wasn’t the kind of person to randomly kidnap people for- Why are _you_ here?”

“Interesting,” Mordin says, “Why you indeed? Kaidan right, Shepard hardly the type to kidnap. And yet, given infinite power, first thing he does. Why? You are significant, represent something. Failure? Universal laws to overcome, show power, rescue- no, no, he would have said something. Love? Perhaps, has Kaidan though. Humanity? No-no-not represented in a person. Why- Oh. Last name. Shepard?”

“It is.”

“Same as his.”

“So I was right,” Kaidan says, “It was too much of a coincidence.”

“Yes,” Mordin says, “Yes, makes sense. His ex-wife, no?”

Shepard inclines her head.

Grunt, Samara, and Kaidan exclaim at once.

“Thought you’d be prettier,” Mordin continues, calmly.

“Excuse me?” Shepard says, with only mild offense.

“Did not mean to insult! Was only that he spoke of you as-”

“An ideal,” Shepard says, tiredly, “I’m aware.”

“Shepard,” Samara says, “I think you ought to explain.”

“My ex-husband decided that controlling the Reapers was a better idea than killing them. And then he decided that he wanted me to be there with him.”

“Why?”

“I-” Shepard shakes her head, “I don’t know. I don’t think he ever really managed to move on.”

“You never told us about him,” Grunt says, and hopes that it’s an us. That it’s not just that she didn’t trust him and didn’t tell him, like he’s pretty sure the other Shepard would have. But Samara looks as surprised as she ever does, and if Shepard had told anyone, she would have told Samara.

“What was there to tell? He was dead. It wasn’t as though talking about it would do anything but make me cry in front of the entire crew.”

“Cry?” Grunt says.

Shepard shrugs, and says, brittle and bitter.

“He promised me two kids and a stupid little house on a colony world. And then he up and died on Torfan and I got left with the rest of my life to sort out alone. I can understand wanting that back. If it’s any comfort Kaidan, he did love you. You just weren’t-”

“It wasn’t about peace with us,” Kaidan whispers, “It wasn’t about forever. No, I understand.”

—

Samara stands in the back of the room, and feels her stomach turn to ice.

There is very little here that she can, in good conscience, feel. She ought not to feel betrayed, it was not as though she expected Shepard to tell her everything about her life. It is not as though that was a fair thing to ask in any case, she shared little of her own life. Little about her own daughters. She and Shepard mostly spoke of the present. Of missions and battle tactics, and various bits of drama about Asari opera stars.

At the time, she had found it refreshing, to find someone who did not ask her to think of the future, and did not ask her to re-examine the pain of the past.

Now, she wishes that she had asked more. She had not sought to understand Shepard, and now she must deal with this, whatever this is. She must wonder, that if Shepard had pursued anything with her, she might have ended up like Kaidan. Ultimately secondary.

Shepard shakes her head, and says, firmly.

“Right. Enough of this. We have a mission to complete, and dwelling on this isn’t going to help.”

“A mission?” Kaidan says, slow and disbelieving.

“Shepard’s gone insane. We have to stop him before he kills anyone else.”

“We can’t!” Kaidan yelps, “We came here to talk to Shepard not-”

“You are sure it is necessary?” Mordin says, softly.

“I was just in his head,” Shepard says, “If it helps, I don’t think he was quite himself. The whole being a Reaper thing was getting to him. I hope, at least.”

“Shepard?” Samara asks, because there is grief in her face.

“No, I’m fine,” she says, “But there’s little I can tell you. The man I married would _never_ have let the geth die.”

“So, what’s the plan?” Grunt says, and Shepard perks up a bit, shoulders straightening.

“The plan was to blow this whole ship up,” Shepard says, cheerfully, “But now that I know you guys are on it, we’re going to have to adjust that a bit so you don’t die. I was going to overload the warp drive, and send this whole thing out in a blaze of glory. But I think that killing off these things,” she gestures to the sphere behind her, “Would get pretty much the same thing, without as much of a bang.”

“Why were you not doing that in the first place?” Samara asks.

“Because there are a lot of them. And the last one happens to be in the room that he brings people to talk to them.”

“Oh,” Kaidan says.

“Do you have a better plan?” she asks.

“No.”

“Then let’s get moving.”

Shepard moves to start walking, but her foot catches on the hem of her dress, and she trips with a quiet,

“Fuck.”

Samara moves forward to steady her.

“Commander Shepard,” she says, “Savior of the Citadel.”

“Shut up,” she grumbles, “I haven’t had to walk in a dress in like, a decade.”

—

“So,” the other Miranda asks, “What went differently in your timeline?”

“How should I know?” Miranda replies, with a bit of exasperation. They’ve been having variations on this conversation for the better part of an hour. The other Miranda wants to figure out what went wrong.

Miranda isn’t sure that anything did go wrong.

“Well, then,” the other Miranda says, “Tell me what you’re going to do, now that the galaxy isn’t falling apart.”

“I don’t know,” Miranda says, “Help rebuild, I suppose.”

That should not feel as freeing as it does. Miranda has spent her life working to schedules, often someone else’s. She’s sure that says something about her, and she’s also sure that whatever it is is uncomplimentary.

So she’s going to try not having any plans for a while.

Who knows, should they all survive this, she might end up back on the Normandy.

“Ah,” the other Miranda says, “But rebuild what?”

“Anything that needs it. Name something, and it probably needs at least some fixing.”

“Cerberus most of all,” the other Miranda says, firmly.

“What?”

“Come on, like you hadn’t considered it. The Illusive Man was obviously indoctrinated at the end there, but it wasn’t as though Cerberus never did any good.”

_“What?”_ Miranda says, again. It’s really all she can think of. It’s not as though words can express the things that she has heard, from Shepard a little, and from Jack a lot, about what Cerberus did _before_ the Illusive Man was indoctrinated.

It’s not as though there isn’t an entire board on the Normandy forums dedicated to cataloguing every screw-up Cerberus has ever made, and it’s not as though, when she read through it, she didn’t realize that she hadn’t heard of half of it.

It’s not as though she feels betrayed, or anything.

“Humanity will still need a champion, once all this is over,” the other Miranda continues, “And who better for the job than Cerberus? We have experience.”

“What about Jack?”

“What about her? It’s not as though the Illusive Man would have condoned that. And besides, she was a child. How can she be sure what she saw? You and I both know from experience that Cerberus is far kinder to orphans than that.”

“You believed him? About that?”

“You didn’t? Shepard went with Jack, and he was certain. The Illusive man is better than that.”

What can Miranda say to that? That she’s been in the Illusive Man’s files and his track record suggests that he really, really isn’t. That there is evidence, not enough to prove anything, that he was working with her dad all along, that her whole life, her whole career with Cerberus was just yet _another_ of her father’s methods of controlling her, and she can’t tell the other Miranda that, because-

Because she knows herself.

She wouldn’t believe it.

“I’m starting to think your Shepard was a bit naive.” Miranda says, and oh. She feels tired.

“Funny,” the other Miranda says, childish and bitter, and was that really _her_? Had she ever sounded like that? “I was starting to think the same about yours.

And before Miranda can think of something to say to that, something that the other her might actually listen to, they come to an opening in the hall.

To a room, large and white, with a projector in the middle of it.

“Hello, ladies,” a voice says, from within it.

“Peter,” the other Miranda gasps, and Miranda can understand that.

The first thing she’s reminded of is the Illusive man whenever he deigned to communicate with the Normandy. The man in front of them is projected in blue, and a little bit grainy.

He looks normal.

Too normal.

“Miranda,” he says, in a human voice, with human pleasant surprise, “I didn’t think I’d be seeing you here. Is it just me, or are there two of you?”

“Yes,” the other Miranda says, with a shrug, “She’s here to look for another Shepard. Don’t suppose you would know anything about that?”

“Another Shepard?” the man repeats, his tone noticeably cooler, “Whatever for?”

“We’re going to bring her home,” Miranda says, and immediately recognizes it as a mistake. The man’s eyes sharpen at the words.

“To do what? Rebuild? She’s a blunt instrument, Miranda, you don’t really need her for that.”

“Her?” the other Miranda asks.

“Yes, her. The other Shepard, as the rest of my team have been calling her. I prefer to think of her as Carolina.”

Across the room, there is a great clatter, and the rest of the group bursts through one of the entrances to the halls.

“That is her name,” Samara says, coolly.

“What is _going on_?” the other Miranda yells.

“I’ll explain in a moment,” he tells her, absent and offhanded, “Now, Miranda. Alternate Miranda, I mean. And your compatriots. Ask yourself, do you really need her? Or can you afford to just let her stay.”

“What do you mean,” Samara says, icily, “Just let her stay.”

“Precisely that. She would be happier here, I can assure you.”

“Oh,” Samara says, “Can you?”

“He’s not lying,” Shepard says, her voice soft and full of something like regret, “I think- I think I could be happy here. I could stay, and dream with you. It would be better, certainly, than trying to go home and face the consequences of what I’ve done.”

Miranda whips her head around to look at Shepard, to try and parse the nebulous longing in the other woman’s voice. She thought that she knew Shepard fairly well, after all. She’d rebuilt the woman, and worked with her for a year- more if you counted the time they spent together during the Reaper war. She’s heard Shepard in battle and out of it, and the woman has never spoken like this. Shepard is blunt and direct and doesn’t usually think beyond the next two minutes in terms of planning. She never regretted.

She was never, _never_ wistful.

“But-” Samara says.

“Shepard,” Grunt rumbles, warning.

“But,” Shepard says, raising a hand, and stepping forward, well into the personal space of the hologram, and god, it is disturbing how small she looks, next to the vision of a six foot tall man, “I cannot stay here. And neither can you.”

“ _What?_ ”

“Don’t tell me you’re surprised.”

“Of course I’m surprised. Carolina, you’re happy here.”

“And you’re happier still to have me here, yes, I know.”

“So?”

“There’s an entire galaxy out there that needs saving. And I’m needed there, whatever you might say to the contrary.”

“You’ve given your life to them.”

“No, I’ve promised it to them. And my life isn’t over yet, so guess what?”

Shepard throws a hand out, a violent slash of motion.

“I’m going back to them.”

“So what? You’re planning to take me?”

“Are you coming?”

“I can’t.”

“You _can’t_ , can you,” Shepard’s voice is too steady, “And why is that, do you wonder? Do you even realize?”

“I- I can be okay here. I can defend humanity. And you could be happy, don’t you want that?”

“It’s not about what I want.”

“It’s always about what you want. I learned that around the galaxy. From your death, if you can believe it. If you want it, you have to take it. You have to protect your own, because _promises_ don’t count for anything in the real world.”

“The man I married would never have said that.”

“And the woman who married me would have _understood_. What happened to you, Carolina?”

“I opened my eyes. Guess what, Shepard? I may protect my own, but to protect their own, I have to take care of the entire galaxy. There isn’t a line, a neat place in the sand where you can just say that these people aren’t my responsibility anymore.”

“I chose to protect humanity.”

“And I chose to protect _everyone_. And humanity is the better for it.”

“So this is going to be about the choices I made, is it?”

“It is. It is because I thought that you could do it _better_ than me. I thought that you would save more people, do better things, if you had lived instead of me. Do you have _any idea_ how long I spent wishing that it had been me instead of you?”

“Carolina-”

“And now, what do I find? That despite every fuck-up I’ve ever made, every mistake, every soldier I have deliberately and knowingly sent to their death, that I have somehow managed to save more people than the man who once told me off for hating aliens because we were all people. I became who I was _for you_.”

“And it wasn’t what I want-”

“And that _doesn’t matter_. I am Commander Shepard now. You don’t deserve that goddamn title.”

“The hell are you talking about, Carolina.”

“Look at what you’re doing. You’re not protecting humanity anymore. You’re _ruling them_.”

The chamber falls suddenly, dangerously, silent.

“Carolina-” the man snarls, “You know I would never-”

“You’ve killed every team that tried to object to you. At least two entire colonies. The _entire galaxy_ is sitting, with baited breath, because they think they’re going to be next. Tell me, what part of that is for the good of humanity?”

“I- I don’t- My God. This wasn’t what I intended.”

“I don’t think it was,” Shepard says, the anger retreating from her voice as quickly as it came.

“Are you saying-?”

“Peter, I’m sorry.”

“No,” and the hologram seems to sink in on itself, “No, you’re right. I’m not quite Peter Shepard anymore, am I?”

“For what it’s worth,” Shepard whispers, “I don’t think you’re a Reaper either.”

“No, but I’m heading there. I guess that’s what this was. A last attempt. To convince myself that I was still the person I remember being. I’m sorry, Carolina, I shouldn’t have dragged you into this.”

“What-” Kaidan says, from the back of the room.

“Sorry, Kaidan. I’m afraid this is going to have to be goodbye.”

“ _Why?”_ the other Miranda says, “You were-” and then she stops, because-

If Miranda knows herself, it’s because what Shepard said was true. Because she, the other her, at least, has nothing more that she can say.

“Indoctrinated,” Peter snaps, “Or getting there, at least.”

Kaidan looks ready to argue the point, but just then, the ship shakes.

“What’s happening -? I can’t feel-”

“I’ve erased most of your databanks. Figured it would be the quickest way to disable you.”

“And you have. You’ve gotten better at planning, my dear.”

“Thanks,” Shepard says, with something that might possibly be a blush, and then she snaps, back into familiar military mode, “Miranda, Grunt, Samara, get back to the portal. The rest of you, go. You don’t want to be within the blast radius of this thing.”

“What about you?” Miranda says.

“I’m going to stay,” Shepard says, quietly. Her eyes drop, her hands fold over the folds of her dress.

“Why?”

It’s Samara who said it, her voice just as quiet. The justicar takes a step forward.

“If he was indoctrinated, what chance do I have? You know that there’s a chance that the same could have happened to me. It’s not as though I can say that I’ve not spent too much time aboard Reapers.”

“Shepard. You cannot believe-”

“I cannot take the risk. I cannot take the risk that even from beyond the grave, the Reapers might live on through me. You know that. And it’s not like my skills are much good for rebuilding.”

“Shepard—”

“You said it yourself,” she says, and there are tears, God, tears, rolling down her cheeks, even though her voice is perfectly steady, “I, like you, am trained for war, and war alone. What use could a world in need of less rebuilding and more fighters have for me?”

“Shepard,” Samara swallows, “Carolina,” she says, and then steps forward, reaches out, to cup the other woman’s cheek in her hand, “I cannot leave you to die here.”

“Why not? It’s not as though your code would permit you to take the risk.”

“Do not presume to tell me what the code does or does not say. Shepard, I could not kill you even had you shown signs of indoctrination.”

Shepard blinks, her mouth falling open slightly.

“Carolina,” Samara says, softly, “the world may not need you. I would argue that it does, but- even should it not, _I_ need you.”

“But you said-”

“I am not fit to be a partner for anyone. I cannot promise that I will be able to stay with you, to settle down and let the world be nothing but you, as you deserve, but- If you would have me, I am here.”

“Samara, I- This isn’t the place to have this conversation, but I would- of course I would want to be with you.”

“Hah,” Peter says, behind her, “It looks like you have something to go home to, after all.”

“I-”

“Carolina. Go. Be happy. And, thank you.”

Shepard blinked at him. Then, flung her arms around the hologram.

“I missed you. I always will, probably. But-”

“You’re welcome. It’s enough to know- You’ve been better than I have, and I’m- I’m glad. Goodbye.”

And then, Samara caught Carolina’s arm, and Grunt grabbed the other, and as one, the entire group ran.


End file.
